


regreso al amor

by artifice



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 90s, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, Other tags:, WARNINGS:, character study of sorts, ok hear me out... hades looks and hades/soa/iliad personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artifice/pseuds/artifice
Summary: “He said that music is an expression of the soul,” Patroclus whispers after a beat, “and that I didn’t have one to speak of.”5 times Achilles misses Patroclus and 1 time he doesn't have to.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 105





	regreso al amor

**Author's Note:**

> i went almost a year without access to a piano and now i'm too scared to actually sit and practice any of my old repertoire bc of how much my skills have deteriorated and that's on classical guilt baby [sunglasses emoji] [fire emoji] [peace sign emoji]

I missed the last bus, I'll take the next train

I'll try, but you see, it's hard to explain

I say the right thing but act the wrong way

I like it right here, but I cannot stay

\- The Strokes, "Hard to Explain"

* * *

i. 1989

The measure of time as distance is, in Achilles’ opinion, quite possibly _the_ stupidest thing he’s ever had to deal with. Then again, he is a mere eleven years old, and he does not yet understand the concept of “average”, because Achilles is not an average child.

“What do you mean, you ‘live half an hour away and can’t visit’?” Achilles whines into the landline, tugging impatiently at the cord he’s wrapped around his finger in his fidgeting. “Just run, you’ll get here in half that time.”

Patroclus sighs on the other end, exasperated before he even knows the meaning of the word. “Half hour _drive_. Running would take longer.”

Achilles flails dramatically, nearly sending the fruit bowl next to him flying, and only succeeds in cutting off the circulation to his index finger.

Kilometers away, across the bridge, Patroclus feels the burning sensation of his father’s glare on his back.

“I have to practice now,” he says quickly, half-whispering, “but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“ _Paaaat_ ,” Achilles pouts, but to no avail— there is only the monotonous hum of a dead line. Reluctantly, he unwinds the cord from his finger and gently places the phone back. It settles into place with a lonely click.

Paces away, Peleus observes his son’s melancholy from the kitchen threshold.

“All right, lad?”

Still pouting, Achilles faces his father. “This is the fourth time he can’t come. It’s like I can’t do anything if he’s not here.”

Peleus blinks. Achilles cringes inwardly. He had admittedly become— very attached. The second they had made eye contact while waiting to audition for their conservatory's youth orchestra, he knew he'd found his best friend. 

“He can’t spend all day playing with you,” his father points out, not unkindly.

“But he’s not even _busy_.” Glum is not a look that sits well on Achilles’ face. “His dad won’t let him do anything except practice. What’s there to practice? He’s better than all of them already.”

Bingo. Peleus looks like something wrenches in his heart at young Patroclus’ plight— a driven father, an absent mother, and the weight of a thousand expectations on his too-thin shoulders… no, his father would sooner die than treat Achilles the way he has gathered that Menoetius treats Patroclus.

Instead of responding, Peleus joins him by the landline and ruffles his hair. He picks up the phone, redials the last-called number, and waits.

A gruff voice picks up on the other end.

Faintly, Achilles hears: “Menoetius speaking.”

Peleus affects his most pleasant voice. “Good afternoon, Menoetius, this is Peleus— Achilles’ father? Our sons are in orchestra together.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, good,” he says and strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Listen, Achilles has been moping all week. I promised him he could have a friend sleep over this weekend if he improved his behaviour, and lo and behold, here we are. I was wondering if you’d be terribly opposed to Patroclus coming over after tomorrow’s performance class?”

There is a heavy silence.

Then, slowly: “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“Oh. Wait— whyever not?”

“Good day, Peleus.”

Achilles sighs while his father puts the phone back. His shoulders slump dismissively before the older man has the chance to say anything.

“Thanks anyway,” he mumbles, then drags his feet out of the kitchen and up to his room.

When Peleus hears the mournful sound of Schubert’s “ _Ständchen_ ” floating down from upstairs, he takes a seat at the kitchen table with his hands under his chin, and he thinks.

ii. 1991

Gone, at least now, are the days of phoning Patroclus and being disappointed every time the call ends.

Despite this, Achilles feels little else but shock and worry. It’s horrible, Achilles thinks, absolutely terrible that his best friend has been disowned by his father for not being— _good enough_ , whatever that even means. And anyway, what more can a father possibly expect from a thirteen-year-old boy who already exceeds every expectation? A national competition winner who is competent at both the piano and violin?

It makes him angry.

Patroclus sits at the edge of Achilles’ bed with his head in his hands (his hands, his beautiful hands), hiccupping and sobbing. Achilles stands in front of him and rubs his shoulders. The record player has Jacqueline du Pré’s Elgar concerto in the background, almost inaudible with Achilles’ undivided attention on Patroclus.

“Maybe if I just— if I had just focused on violin—?” He wrings his hands and snaps his gaze up to look desperately at Achilles. “Instead of trying to do both?”

Achilles tries not to let incredulity show on his face. _Nothing could have changed this_ , he wants to say. _Dropping piano would’ve just been one more “disappointment”_. Instead, he moves next to Patroclus and scoots up the bed, lying himself down with an arm out. An open invitation.

The other boy takes it, sniffing.

They lie there for a moment, and then Achilles shifts his weight onto his side to face the other boy and take his hand.

“He said that music is an expression of the soul,” Patroclus whispers after a beat, “and that I didn’t have one to speak of.”

Achilles tries to rein in his anger, but it’s a difficult thing. “You’ve got more soul than any other musician in the world, even _me_.”

Patroclus visibly flounders for a reply.

“If so, then my soul has been torn in half,” he settles on, simply, like it's not breaking Achilles' heart.

No parent should do that to a child. Nobody should do that to _anybody_.

“These,” he says urgently, running his thumb along Patroclus’ knuckles, imploring him to understand, “these are more than enough.”

 _You_ , he means to say. _You are more than enough_.

Patroclus’ expression shutters minutely. His hand tenses in Achilles’ and falls limply between them.

“I’m sorry.” He tries again, the pads of his fingers brushing the skin of the other boy's wrist.

Patroclus’ gaze softens, but he still has a distant sadness in his eyes.

“It’s okay.”

It’s not. He can make this better.

With a weak smile, Achilles reminds him: “Silver linings.”

Peleus will look after Patroclus as if he was his own. Patroclus will attend the same private school as Achilles. After three years of only glimpses and stolen moments with the other boy, they have stumbled upon an oasis of time.

“Silver linings,” Patroclus echoes, though his voice is faint.

“Just think,” Achilles urges softly, “we’ll be able to play in school bands and ensembles and orchestras together, and we won’t need to rely on Conservatory events to see each other.”

This brings the other boy to the present, a little. “Pieces from any era we want.”

“No more stupid Mozart.”

“No need to practice until my nails are torn off their beds.”

“ _Definitely_ not,” Achilles says with barely-disguised horror. Patroclus shrugs with the shoulder that isn’t pressed against the mattress.

“Isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a musician.”

“Patroclus.” _Pat-ro-clus_ , like the pitter-patter of rain on the windshield of Peleus’ 1988 Toyota Camry. “From now on out, I’m going to take care of you. All right?”

The boy in question looks at him like he sees past him, but he nods, nonetheless. His eyes are far, far away. He’s either lost in a memory, or he going to fall asleep right here. Crying is exhausting. Sleeping is a good idea.

Achilles yawns, vowing to stay awake and watch over his best friend.

It’s the Adagio that does him in.

iii. 1994

Maybe he would be a better person if he just knew how to keep his fat fucking mouth shut.

“What’d you think?”

Achilles lays on the couch next to the grand (and grand spanking new) piano in his living room. A Yamaha C3, because Peleus likes what Japan has to offer. He’d ostensibly bought it “for the family,” but Achilles can see right through him: of all the instruments Achilles plays, he’d taken to classical guitar the most these days, and he hardly touched their piano anymore. The sentimental old man had bought it especially for Patroclus.

He stares at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. “Pat, you’re a regular Rubinstein.”

Somehow, even though they’re both only 17, Patroclus can make the music sound like he’s had centuries of experience.

“Come on, don’t make me out to be all that,” Patroclus says. Achilles can’t see his face, but he knows he’s doing that thing where he goes all red and fidgets with embarrassment.

He continues to stare at the ceiling.

“What do you think about?” He hears himself asking. Then he scrambles. “I mean, piece like that, you gotta have the secrets of the whole world at your fingertips.”

There’s a weighted atmosphere, something that feels like it’ll choke Achilles where he lays, but he can’t move. He hears the soft rustle of fabric and footsteps on carpet. Patroclus’ face appears above him, still red. The world is technicolour once more.

“Come here,” Patroclus says and extends a warm hand. His fingers are shaking ever so slightly. His pinkies are bent sideways at the knuckles from having overextended his hands all his life, and his wrists are sturdy. His hands are not that of a typical pianist, but they are beautiful all the same. Achilles wants to catch those hands in his and press kisses to each knuckle and tendon.

Instead, he takes the offered hand and pulls himself up, letting go to swing his legs off the couch and stand. By the time he turns around, Patroclus has already taken his seat at the piano. The sun comes from the other side of the room— it wouldn’t do to place the instrument close to a window— but the other boy still looks radiant at the bench.

He beckons Achilles closer, then reaches up to raise the music rack once more so that the sheet music lies in front of him. Achilles, for his part, sits on the stool next to bench.

His ass is going to be so numb in a couple minutes.

“This,” Patroclus taps the first page, then settles more comfortably, placing his hands on his lap.

Inhale.

Lift.

Exhale.

Patroclus plays the first six measures of Chopin’s "Ballade in G minor". Achilles sits back and watches with hungry eyes as the muscles of Patroclus’ arms and back shift beneath his black shirt. He watches the way Patroclus’ spine dips and his shoulders— relaxed, always relaxed— slope and his foot moves in nearly imperceptible movements and—

B flat. Lift the left hand. Patroclus pauses.

“That’s the first time you asked me to come over,” he says simply. Then the bent pinky of his right hand seamlessly switches places with the fourth finger, and his left hand, in a graceful arc, lands on D, and his right thumb stretches for C. 

His left hand strokes the keys, perfectly even, and the right hand melody is ringing and long and effortless, though Achilles knows how many hours it had taken just to play the section well.

Patroclus plays and plays before he lingers once again at the next section, allowing the Gs he had just coaxed out to reverberate through the air.

“That’s the first time you took me to the ocean, where you led me down the rocks and I asked where all the sand had gone.” He looks up at Achilles with a wry grin. “You laughed and taught me how to skip pebbles.”

Achilles knows it’s wrong to stop a musician when they’re playing. He knows the annoyance of interruption well. And yet, he slides off the stool and Patroclus promptly releases the pedal and the Gs are gone and it’s quiet, it’s so quiet—

— when their lips finally meet. Achilles is awkwardly hunched over, and Patroclus freezes under the contact. He’s kissed girls before— the world had been crazy over Nirvana, and they’d always told him how he looks like Kurt, does he kiss like Kurt too— but this is something new, this is—

— Patroclus relaxing and letting him in. Achilles melting into the hand that has come up to rest gently on his neck, where his pulse is a horse at the races. This is Achilles moving closer, and he’d be in the other boy’s lap if he could, but there’s a whole piano in the way, and he’d laugh if he just _could_ , because there’s something like giddiness shooting through his veins—

— and Patroclus breaks the kiss, but he does not move too far away. Somehow, however, something is wrong. Achilles opens his eyes and meets Patroclus’.

“Please don’t do this to me,” Patroclus whispers from that damningly perfect mouth.

Achilles slowly leans back. He wants to— he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants what Patroclus wants. There are too many things to say and too many things to be left unsaid. In a trance, he straightens up to his full height. Glances down at where Patroclus has taken to staring unseeingly at the keys, his hands limp on his lap.

 _Look at me_ , he wants to say, but it seems he knows how to shut up now.

Stiffly, he gathers his denim jacket from where he had flung it on the couch and walks to the front door, mind blank. He pockets his wallet and refuses to turn back as he shuts the door behind him.

Patroclus drops the piece from his repertoire.

iv. 1994

It’s a new beginning, like most post-secondary education is.

They don’t talk about the kiss. They don’t really talk at all. Not like they used to.

By the time they arrive on campus and settle into their dorm— because of course they’re sharing, what else would they do— and are relaxed enough to sit down and examine what Welcome Week has to offer, Achilles has put it all far out of his mind.

(Still, he goes to bed that night, like every night since, thinking of lips on his and fingers fluttering on his pulse.)

The next morning, they’re woken up by deep shouting and loud banging noises, like gunshots, or piano strings snapping explosively.

“Whath- _fuh_ ,” Patroclus grumbles, rolling over on his bed to smother himself with his pillow.

Achilles heartily agrees. He couldn’t sleep well the night before; he generally doesn't, in new places. In the middle of the night, he’d quietly gotten up and put on a collection of Beethoven’s Sonatas with their portable CD player, letting the disk run on repeat at the lowest volume to calm his nerves. It’s back at F minor now, he notes at the back of his thoughts, halfway through the second movement.

He gets up and pads over to the door when somebody starts knocking furiously. Outside, he hears… singing? Chanting?

“BOO YA, MOTH-ER-FUCK-ERS! WAKEY WAKEY!”

“Dude,” Achilles opens the door. The chanting stops. “What.”

“Hey, man, what’s up,” the rep on the other side beams at him. He is wearing a colourful maroon jumpsuit tied at the waist and a grey shirt that says ILIUM UNIVERSITY in the same maroon. Compared to the dull grey walls behind him, he is a too-bright beacon for a too-early hour. He is holding a giant water jug in each hand. Something clicks distantly in Achilles’ mind. No guns. “Name’s Hector, welcome to Ilium!”

“Dude,” Achilles repeats, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“Tell _Hector_ he can go fuck himself,” Patroclus groans from his bed, his voice muffled from the pillow.

“ _Pat_.”

Luckily, Hector takes it with good humour. “No worries, my man. Par for the course, early mornings and—” the smile falls from his face.

Because Patroclus has rolled onto his back, and he’s sitting up now, covers pooling messily around his waist.

And he stares at Hector.

And Hector stares back. Like he’s just seen God.

Achilles’ gaze flits between the two. He’s still exhausted from the night before, but. Oh.

He can recognize jealousy and rage when it flies through his system.

Instinctively, he steps between them. “Thanks for the wake-up. Hector.” He nods curtly, then shuts the door with— perhaps more force than is required. The clanging and yelling outside resumes after a pause, though with less fervour.

Patroclus won’t meet his eyes when he exhales and turns around. Instead, he’s looking down at his hands, and his dark cheeks are noticeably flushed.

Achilles— kind of, in a masochistic way, sort of— wants to see how far he can take this. He sits back down on his bed and leans against the wall, right against his poster for _Forrest Gump_. Run, Achilles, run.

“What a dick,” he says, watching the other boy’s expression closely.

There’s the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of Patroclus’ mouth, Achilles observes with growing dread.

“I don’t know,” Patroclus tosses back the covers and raises his arms above his head, leaning forward to stretch out his spine. His sleep shirt rides up his back. “He seems like he might be alright.”

No, no. 

No. This isn't how it's supposed to go.

On second thought, Achilles doesn’t think he can do this. But Patroclus isn’t done.

“Who knows?”

(Achilles doesn’t know; he doesn’t want to know. Something is ringing violently in his ears.)

“It might be good to make a few new friends here.”

“Just friends?”

The words slip out of his mouth without consultation from his mind.

Patroclus is looking at him now. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice is sharp, suddenly.

“No, nothing.” But the damage is done. Achilles looks away in shame, his jealousy an ugly weight behind his eyes. Right at the window.

“Achilles.” He tries not to flinch. “Look at me.”

A moment later, Achilles feels hands on his face, prompting him to look up to where the other boy stands before him. It’s like they’re thirteen again.

Patroclus runs a gentle thumb along his left cheekbone. “You are my dearest friend,” he says softly, a deadly contrast to before, “but you don’t own me.”

“I belong to you.”

 _Shit_.

Achilles feels mortified heat flood his face.

 _That_ wasn’t supposed to come out, ever.

“Wait, I.”

He doesn't finish because it’s too late. Patroclus has stepped back hesitantly, and his hands fall limply at his sides. Achilles swallows. There’s a chasm between them, impossible to cross despite being less than an arm’s length wide.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Patroclus draws out his words carefully. “Can you do that for me.” It’s less of a question and more of an order.

Now, of all times, Achilles can’t find his voice. So he nods. Watches as Patroclus quickly slips on a pair of sweatpants and grabs his toothbrush. Closes his eyes so that he only hears the door open and close.

(The last arpeggio of the fourth movement feels overwhelmingly loud in the subsequent silence.)

v. 1997

So, Achilles is kind of the worst type of person.

Because Patroclus is very, very drunk.

And they’ve lasted another two years together without even a passing mention of what they did at seventeen.

And there’s no reason to bring it up now, only—

Patroclus is straddling his lap and placing sloppy kisses on and around his mouth. His breath smells like raspberry vodka and Coca Cola. They’d just gotten back to their apartment after ditching a New Year’s party at Agamemnon’s, and Patroclus had dragged him down to the closest horizontal surface— their living room couch— before climbing on top of him.

And Achilles hadn’t wanted to give in. He almost hadn’t, but.

 _But_.

Patroclus’ hips were right there.

And his hands naturally settled there, fingers digging into the softness of his skin through his shirt, as though they’d been drifting for 4000 years and finally found an anchor.

“Wanted this,” Patroclus sighs against his lips, leaning impossibly closer and pressing their bodies flush against each other, “for _so_ long.”

Achilles can’t bring himself to speak and shatter the illusion.

See, this is why he’s the worst:

Because Patroclus has a girlfriend named Briseis.

Because Patroclus is going to get married in a couple years. Yeah, he saw the fucking ring.

Because Patroclus isn’t a dirty _fag_. Not like he is.

Because Patroclus does not, and never has, wanted Achilles like that.

Still, instead of stopping, he only tilts his chin up and lets the sense of inebriation settle over him like a shock blanket. Patroclus licks into his mouth again. He complies.

They’re grinding against each other, and though they’re barely hard from the fucking alcohol, they could spend forever like this. Alone with lips on lips and hands everywhere and feverishly hot bodies _touching_ — why couldn’t they stay like this forever?

Slowly, Patroclus runs his fingers in Achilles’ hair, catching on the knots and tugging at him enough that it sends sparks running down his spine and warmth blooming somewhere in his gut.

“Achilles.” Patroclus whispers as though his name is a grave secret, a confession only to be heard by God. He ducks his head to mouth at Achilles’ jawline, then further down his neck to where his pulse is beating a sluggishly tempestuous beat. There is only the music of their bodies now, and he lets his head fall to the side to give the other boy better access.

Clumsily, Patroclus sucks and nips at his skin until he feels a twinge of pain with every brush of pressure. He melts under Patroclus’ hands— oh, God, those hands, those _hands_ — sliding up and down his body, mapping him out through touch alone. It feels endless, nameless.

“Pa— Patroclus,” Achilles moans brokenly when Patroclus does— _that_ , with his hips. His head is being pulled back. He’s being kissed again. He can’t get it up, still, but every part of him feels overstimulated, and he’s burning up, falling, plummeting from the atmosphere at nine point eight meters per second squared and

 _Achilles_ falls off those perfect kiss-swollen lips one more time and

there’s another sigh of bliss, of pleasure, of longing and

then Achilles is colder than he’s ever been in his life.

 _i love you_.

Sobriety seeps through his bones uncomfortably, in waves of awareness, of the cracked leather beneath him, the frozen January night, the scent of alcohol rank on Patroclus’ breath.

“Fuck,” he gasps and wrenches himself away. Patroclus’ eyes are still closed, like he’s still expecting this— _this_ — to continue.

Slowly, Patroclus opens his eyes and leans back, just enough. His hands are still on Achilles’ chest. There is no horror or regret on his face.

Achilles is going to vomit.

“Fuck,” he repeats instead, letting his head fall to hit the back of the couch behind him, and he tears his eyes away from the sight of Patroclus on his lap to stare at their popcorn ceiling.

“I broke up with Briseis.” Patroclus quietly admits. Achilles doesn’t look away. He doesn’t want to see the other boy’s expression. There’s an odd brown stain on the ceiling. A splash of dried coffee, probably.

“Why.” It’s not a question.

Still, he gets an answer. Patroclus lifts a hand to his cheek.

“Please look at me.”

“I can’t.”

They should use bleach, or maybe paint. Get up on a chair with a brush and paint over all of it, like it never existed. Any other stains on the ceiling, too.

“Why?” This one is a question, finally. “I belong to you too, I always have, I’m sorry I didn’t say it back—”

“Please don’t do this to me.” He feels 17 all over again. He closes his eyes, praying for refuge in the nothingness. If he tries, he can pretend he’s still on the couch back at his father’s house, that he’s just finished listening to Patroclus practicing that goddamn Chopin. A time before everything got fucked up.

Patroclus lets out a choked sound, like he remembers too.

The hands disappear from his body and the weight on his lap vanishes as Patroclus stumbles upright.

Forget parents— he thinks that this is what it really means to tear your soul in half.

+1. 1997

It’s an odd feeling, when you lose a friend but still know how to get to their house.

… Achilles wouldn’t know. Why would he ever want to?

His boyfriend ( _boyfriend!!!_ ) of ten months is doing a ridiculous dance this morning while Achilles leans against the living room windows, nursing a bowl of Lucky Charms. Patroclus sticks his arms out dramatically and starts shimmying like MC Hammer, inching closer and closer with the goofiest grin on his face. What Yo-Yo Ma and his cello can _do_ to a guy, is all Achilles is saying, you know? It’s like their last year of university won’t be so bad.

(Their neighbours have already sent in one noise complaint about the, quote, _stupid tango music_. Achilles can’t stop giggling his fucking ass off.)

“Why didn’t _we_ ever do any Piazzolla?” Patroclus asks after a spin, nearly tripping on their rug, panting and smiling while the Allegro from _Tango Suite_ fades out into “Regreso al amor” from their home stereo system.

“We did!”Achilles exclaims with another mouthful of Lucky Charms. He chews and swallows. “’Nightclub 1960’ with the violin and guitar, remember? Sophomore year in high school.”

“No,” Patroclus replies, sidling up to him and unceremoniously taking his place between Achilles’ legs. He gently pries breakfast from Achilles’ hands and sets it further down on the windowsill, a way’s away. Then he curls a fist in the collar of Achilles’ hoodie and pulls him in. Achilles meets him halfway, his hands finding their way home and sliding—

“We’re not having sex when we both have class in thirty minutes.”

— up to rest on Patroclus’ hips. Achilles starts wheezing with laughter too much to keep kissing properly, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he tilts his head until their foreheads and noses touch and Patroclus almost goes a little cross-eyed in that adorable way of his.

“God, I love you so much,” he mumbles, rubbing their noses together and smiling hard when Patroclus scrunches up his nose in faux-annoyance.

He’d never, _never_ thought he’d get this. But the morning after that disastrous New Year’s, they’d finally— talked. The whole day, just sitting and talking, and talking, and _talking_. Patroclus’ fears, Achilles’ anger, what their future might look like; nothing was left unsaid. And now, almost a year later, he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier in his life.

“What, _I’m_ not enough for you?” Patroclus teases, leaning away slightly and raising a hand to tilt Achilles’ chin up and kiss him once, square on the mouth. “Gotta have capital-H Him?”

Achilles purses his lips and hums as though he’s mulling it over. Then, giving up the ghost, he pulls Patroclus into another mind-shattering kiss. God damn it. He’s _smiling_ again.

A few more moments pass like that, just lips on lips and hands, hands, hands, all against the backdrop of their shoddy off-campus apartment and the passionate melancholy of Argentina.

Achilles is contemplating skipping class entirely and dragging his boyfriend back to bed when Patroclus breaks the kiss to grasp his shoulders suddenly and shake. “Class. Bus.”

“We have a couple minutes,” he whines, “we’ll run it!” But Patroclus has already let go and is out of his reach.

The system shuts off with a click. Still, it’s anything but silent. Patroclus comes back with their bags and sets them on the ground with a grunt.

“I love you, let’s _go_ ,” he rears up and pecks Achilles’ right cheek lightly. Achilles can’t resist and turns his head to kiss him properly.

Oh.

There it is.

Patroclus’ carefree laughter is the sweetest music he’s ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> you can reach me on [tumblr](https://rtifice.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
